Goodbyes
by Ronnie
Summary: Draco is all prepared to leave, save for one thing. [Slash]


Draco is all prepared to leave. His trunk is packed, sitting across the room from him, silently glaring and throwing accusations, conspiring with the broomstick, which is leaning against it, also glowering in anger. The room seems bare and naked without his things scattered all around it. The floor begs for the presence of various clothing articles, cold and lonely in its desolated state. The walls seem to cry out for the paintings that once adorned their stony faces, bared and vulnerable with no beautifully painted pictures of brutal battles and fiery Dragons to hide behind. He is all prepared to leave, his mind set and his expression determined as he surveys the room that had been his partial room for the past six years. The vacant spaces left by the two missing beds are apparent and obvious, the absence of the objects which stood there for so long poorly concealed by a new tapestry, a new rug. They cannot fool him. Draco knows.  
  
He turns his stormy gray eyes away from the glaring vacancy and prepares to leave the room, and the memories it bore, behind. His footsteps echo loudly against the thick walls as he makes his way towards the door, somber and silent. He would take care of his belongings later; there was one more thing he had to do before. Before. Out the room, not daring to look back, and across the common room, eyes fixed forward, not daring to stray lest he remembers so many things, so many things he wants to forget. Across the common room, almost there, and towards the door. So few are scattered all around the room, cuddled into tight balls in their chairs, as if trying to disappear in the plush dark green velvet. He ignores them and keeps on striding forward, not letting anything distract him from his goal.  
  
Once, the air would warm as he ascended up the stairs and away from the dungeons. Now, the chill had taken a hold of his very bones and would not leave him, even as he makes his way down the brightly lit Hogwarts corridors. His arms come to wrap around his torso, suppressing uninvited shivers and tremors. Up he goes, up countless flights of stairs, up towards the sun, towards the stars, towards the moon. Up he goes, his mind swimming, his heart hammering against his ribcage. His courage seems to sip away as he ascends, pulled down by gravitation and the lack of will on Draco's part. He is all prepared to leave, save for one thing. Every emotional baggage had been left behind, discarded and deserted, abandoned to die a slow and painful death in the forgotten depths of his heart. Save for one.  
  
Not a long time passes and he is standing before the oh-so familiar painting of the lady in pink, staring into her flushed face with a pleading expression all prepared on his beautiful features, exquisite eyes begging and pleading. He knows what he must do. He opens his mouth but the words refuse to come. The letters and sounds lose their way somewhere in his throat and he is left speechless, standing there like a fool. A deep breath is sucked in and he gives it another try, pinching his eyes closed against the throbbing headache that he feels forming in the back of his head. His mouth opens again and he struggles to form words. "I must speak to Harry Potter," he says, in the softest tone of voice he can muster. He watches the lady's expression as she studies him, taking in his features and the plea that shines in his eyes despite his attempts to hide any flicker of emotions. "It is important," he adds, although it is not necessary, for his posture alone sends out a message of need and urgency. She knows it is important. He watches the inner battle, which is apparent on her face, hoping and praying. A moment passes before she fixes him with a serious look and opens her mouth to speak.  
  
"You will stay here while I send one of the portraits to call on young Mr. Potter. This is the best I can do for you, Mr. Malfoy. I cannot allow you to go inside." She says in a strained voice and he nods his thanks, bowing a little deeper than requested by the codes of simple manners. She doesn't smile but when he rises from his little bow, he notices that her gaze is softer. He has to muster every bit of his strength as he stands there, trying not to fidget, trying not to pace. You must keep your cool, he reminds himself, leaning against the cold stone wall, the chill making its way through the fabrics of his robes and undershirt. He can feel the gaze of the lady in the pink dress, but he keeps his eyes lowered. Even when he hears the sound of the portrait swinging open he does not raise his gaze, wishing for another moment to collect himself and his emotions. Another gaze is on him now.  
  
"Draco." says a breathy voice and the young Malfoy's head shoots up, gray eyes meeting green. Draco thought he was all prepared to leave but now he knows that a long time will pass before he would be able to leave those eyes behind.  
  
"Harry," he echoes, his voice so thin and weak, even to his own ears. Harry is looking at him with those eyes and Draco's hands grab a fistful of his robes so he would not run forward and grab the black haired boy by the shoulders and crash him to his body. They are standing so close to each other, yet to Draco it seems like an ocean flows between them, an ocean that was unbridgeable and impassable. "Harry." he says once again, tasting the name on his tongue. "I'm leaving." And that is it. What more is there to say but that? Harry's eyes widen but Draco knows that the Gryffindor had been expecting this. He knew Draco would be leaving soon but very much like Draco himself, he wanted to believe that the day was so far away that it required no attention. How wrong they both were.  
  
"Just like that?" asks the beautiful boy before him in a small voice, the voice of the Boy Who Lived In The Closet Under The Stairs. Pain grips at Draco and he nods his head up and down, slowly. Just like that, my love.  
  
"I cannot ask you to come with me, Harry. I won't ask you to." He says and it is not his own voice that he hears. Those are not his lips that are moving and forming treacherous words, breaking his heart and Harry's.  
  
"I won't ask you to take me with you. And I certainly won't ask you to stay." Says his Harry quietly, stepping forward and holding out his arms and Draco, in a silent understanding, walks into his embrace, burying his head in the taller boy's shoulders, breathing in the scent that was so special to him. There they stood for a while, engrossed in each other, lost in their own little world of desires and textures and touches and feelings. And then, as soon as it had begun, it was over. Draco steps back, breaking the contact, and Harry stands, looking bashful and confused and somewhat lost, his hands crawling into the pockets of his Muggle pants. Draco wants to say so many things, but he keeps quiet. He wants to kiss his Harry one more time, feel the wonderful euphoria he felt whenever those lips touched his, but he stays away and distances himself, adding more bricks to his protective walls. Harry sees that and a sad smile touches his lips. "So goodbye?" he asks, a little hopeful, a little hopeless. Draco can't help himself and he reaches to touch the silky skin of Harry's cheek one more time, withdrawing just as the black haired Gryffindor leans into his touch.  
  
"Goodbye," says Draco sadly. And just like that, he is gone. 


End file.
